“Do you want me to show you another way to eat that rose?” he said with the pompous air I had fully expected from him.

“No, thanks,” I said, drawing the red flower closer to my hands. It was flecked with whipped cream and I was careful not to get any on my fingers.

“No, come on. I know a better way to eat them.”

“No, Sergei, thank you. I can eat them just fine by myself.” As I said this, I started to peel off the outermost petal.

“How are you, Sonya? It’s been a while.” He said this with an emotionless expression and a face betraying no feelings. How typical.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“And your family? How is your mother, Elya?” He just wouldn’t stop.

“She is good. She’s just fine. Everything is good with her.”

“What about your dad?”

“Everything is fine, Sergei. Thank you for asking.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to show you how to eat that rose?”

“No, really, it’s fine. I can eat roses myself,” The notes coming from my mouth were now filled with hints of the frustration I felt.

“Just let me show you. Really, it will only take a second.”

“Please. I can eat the rose myself.” I repeated with a tone of finality.

I protectively placed my hand, palm facing the crimson bud, in front of the flower.

He fell silent.

The tension in the air around us became unbearable. That, and the silence. In the background, I could hear my father’s resonating laugh, the sound of a friend telling a joke, the “clip-clip” of my now deceased dog’s nails hitting our hardwood floor. I wish I could escape this bubble and join those noises. They are family noises. Strings of lights hang throughout the house. Their bulbs twinkle like my mother’s eyes. They light up the faces of my loved ones. But none of this permeates the wall that separates me and my great-grandfather from everyone else.

I look up at the man in front of me. I study his features. His skin is darker than the rest of my family’s; it is the color of almond shells. His hair is dark and streaked with grey. Right now it looks the same as the hair on the man in the countless black and white photographs in the albums around the Other House. The image in front of me is yet another photograph that I did not want to see. Another picture that was forced upon me, to educate me, to bring me closer to my family. Now, however, the grey streaks are real; they are not a result of old-fashioned photography. My eyes slowly move down and slide over his forehead. Our eyes meet. And for the first time I see it: his eyes are exactly like my grandfather’s – kind, gentle, and tired.

“Dedushka, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it…please…” My voice cracks, then deepens, then disappears. “Here…” I croak and hold out what is left of the white flecked crimson bud.

He raises his palm, gesturing for me to keep my rose.

“No, no…I understand.”

Suddenly, the fine wrinkles on his face deepen. They have spread to his neck, arms, all over his body. He is far from young.

Slowly, he turns away.

“Wait, deda…”

But he doesn’t turn around.

“He just wanted to see me.” I think to myself.

The twinkling lights blur until they are simply streaks of light in my vision. My eyes fill to the brim until the hot tears spill over, forming wet trails down my face.

“He really wasn’t that bad.”

My eyelids snap open. I am drenched in sweat. I am awake.

“It was just a dream,” I think to myself.

Outside, the sky is dim. Dark trees are silhouetted against it. Despite the presence of darkness and night, the air is not cool. Heat softly presses against every inch of my skin. And if I don’t move too much, it feels like a comforting, weightless blanket. I like the heat.

I hear voices muttering. The light, flowing notes of the Russian language drift through the thin, plaster walls. I get up out of the familiar, yet foreign bed and follow the notes to the kitchen. My feet pad against the threadbare carpet. I can almost feel the grooves of the worn hardwood floor underneath the worn carpet. Then, my toes sense linoleum. It is not cold like one would expect; the heat, always present, has reached this floor too. I don’t mind. The kitchen is a small room, the size of a walk-in closet. The walls are lined with outdated towels, curtains, tiles, and appliances. The air smells of homemade pickles and coffee; it smells like home. At the small table, no larger than a few square feet, sit two people: my mom and You.

“Dobroye utro.” Good morning.

I don’t know if its technically morning yet, but this phrase is most accurate.

I sit down at the small kitchen table and begin to play with stray spoons and watermelon rinds. The two of you keep talking. Your voice, rough and cracked liked dried mud, is the loudest of the three. The words that leave your mouth are even louder. Not that they have any particular significance, they just come from you. For the next two hours, as you guys chat about life in America, life at home, and life in general, I say few words. I have better things to do. Drinking in your words, I get lost in the folds of your skin, the wrinkles, the freckles. Your feature are mysterious. Why do you have so many freckles? Where is that scar from?  These details are unfamiliar, yet the pressure of ten years has imprinted them in my mind.

Sitting here with my mom and You, I feel so close, yet so distant. But this is nobody’s fault. Not mine, not Yours, not my mother’s or my father’s. Its just life. There is nothing I can do except sit here on a small, rickety wooden stool, play with watermelon rinds, smell pickles, and simply stare, no matter how impolite it may be. I just hope that we can go mushroom picking in a few hours. You told me yesterday that the best time for mushrooms is in the morning. That way, the neighbors haven’t picked them all yet. And maybe tomorrow you could teach me how to drive a manual car?

I watch you sip your instant coffee with two teaspoons of white sugar. Later you will tell me that you don’t eat breakfast but right now you gently nibble your bun. The smell of cigarettes does not linger around you just yet, for it is early. It must be a 4 am thing.